What to slip into on vacation
A hotsummermom diatribe on how to feel, and what to wear at your most louche. Including a good belt and book.
Summer dressing is about getting derailed. Going off course. Coming undone. If not emotionally, then at the very least, literally. I use the term - clothing or getting dressed, for that matter - very loosely in summer. And more so if that vacation happens to involve an island (Ibiza) rather than an urban grid (Beirut). Something a little c*nty comes over me, and this insatiable and irrational need to reveal, flaunt, taunt and potentially defame myself, robs me of any remaining decorous status.
A big part of it stems from anonymity. Not the invisibility that comes from dressing like everyone else, rather the liberating kind…where no one knows your name, your title, your usual hemline. Where your unread emails can't reach you and neither can your better judgement. It’s the closest thing to being feral in a controlled setting. Nothing invites the undoing like heat, humidity and a Campari spritz before noon.
On summer vacation, I’m pursuing vice over virtue.
My hair is frizzy, my skin is sticky, my choices are poor. Not dressing to impress (although there is something to be said about the natural allure of tanned skin), but dressing to unburden. To let your breasts and your beliefs hang loose. To lean hard into the joy of sloppiness, sexiness and soft-core nihilism.
Of course a mood board helps to get things started, so lets begin there.
Archival nods to the usual suspects: Calvin Klein, Donna Karan, Jil Sander, with a touch of Halston (who’s dresses are primed for a resurgent sultry summer as well as a more severe and well heeled Fall - see this and this), serve as tasteful underpinnings to keep from veering into the more facile ways summer dressing can go awry.
Maj Kiosk is the salve. Second-hand archival Italian brands – Sergio Tacchini, Ferré, a little Fiorucci, a smattering of forgotten Benetton and Sisley. Gauzy linens, threadbare cotton dresses, tailored trousers in the muted palette of a Milanese heiress who’s lost her fortune, but not her sensibility. The founder, Zoë Zissovici, models much of it on Stories. It’s hard to say if it’s the clothes or the effortless way she wears them that makes me want to burn my closet, slick back my hair, and move to Sicily.
This neutral base is a segue way to Lamya Lagha’s empirically perfect white dress. Please don’t buy it before I do.
But no matter. Smitten as I am by it, I’m trying to curb my conspicuous consumption and have reconstituted the dress in this iteration below.
The off the shoulder top from Kapsul, one of those new, hip Spanish brands that are stealing thunder from the high-street. The skirt from the much abhorred (and adored) Brandy Hellvile, where the matriarchy shop with shame alongside their teenage daughters. It’s a crime.
The heels, however, are not. I am fully committed to MNZ’s Lido wedge, an uplift to a perky posterior, a boost to the ego. Be a woman, embrace them with grace.
As for the Lamia Lagha dress. I will, no doubt, end up buying it.
Which brings us, deliciously, to two other brands that define the lustful, lackadaisical, and just plain divine feeling of barely-there dressing. Especially when on an island vacation. As I will be. Or already am. In Ibiza.
Nadine Mos and Paloma Wool, both helmed by women, both in their 30s, navigating distinct orbits. Nadine, Cairo-based and full of chaotic sunshine; Paloma, from Barcelona, a touch moodier. Each hits that sweet spot of sensual, considered and slightly off-beat. An aesthetic that’s slippery and sexy, a little like a wet baby seal.
Nadine, whom I’ve written about before, is a delight to the system. A pixie masquerading among us. Her dresses cling in all the right places, misbehaving, slightly immoral. Paloma Wool, I’d heard of but assumed was thermal based on account of the name (misleading). I stumbled into her Paris pop-up in May and was engulfed in stretchy, liquid viscose. Itchy, this was not.
Frankly, the two should meet and have a playdate.
When it comes to shoes, I don’t pander to trends. Still, I fell culprit to the thong sandal heel in every iteration. The shlick-schlack was reason enough. Vulgar, almost. In certain circles, very becoming. For something more peculiar, this stretch jersey slide from Christen is most satisfactory. In the same vein, or perhaps, the originator of the post-partum mom reclaiming her sexuality, MNZ’s mid-heel Yves wedge. Mind you, its not for everyone.
Bordello bloomers. Not my usual style. Yet, they speak to a side of me that I don’t often heed. At first glance they read boho. But squint. Tilt your head, a different story. Not innocence, but something seedy, of the brothel inclination. Reminiscent of Emmanuelle soft porn - hair in a bun, tendrils askew from an afternoon tryst. Imagine them with a frayed tank and ballet slippers, a chandelier earring dangling for distraction. An outfit barely contained, one hot breeze away from unraveling. It’s a summer pill I’m ready to swallow. Try them out and see.
I’ve been wearing this gaudy belt all summer. It gives friction to outfits that feel too clean, too correct. I’m angling for frothing energy, not serenity. A big, bulky accoutrement imposes itself – a deliberate chastity belt, as flippant as it is assuming.
Other quick tips.
Raffia in August is overrated. This Krizia geometric ’80s print isn’t. A little shouty, it recalls Ghesquière’s early Balenciaga years, which of course, was his peak. Excuse me, but I can’t recall a single standout piece from his decade at Louis Vuitton. He seems happy, though.
Cacharel floral print dresses. If you have the tenacity to wear them, by all means you should.
This affable top with micro shorts, a higher heeled Christen wedge + gold hoops is perfect with a mineral wine in hand. Rest assured, no one else will be dressed like you. Forego the exhausted bucket hat and opt for a slightly affected crochet skull cap in its stead. Better yet, learn to make it yourself and bring needle point and embroidery back into the fray.
The good book: The Lover, by Marguerite Duras. My artsy friend Chafa said her writing is like water. Molten, erotic. Sad too – terse, a condiment to seasonal heat. I like when authors linger on clothes, the worn out silk sack dress, the derelict fedora. Here’s an excerpt.
…and a visual from the film…Jane March’s nameless heroine lingering in the soft tissue of my brain.
Come September, I’ll be oscillating between austerity and the high octane confidence of a buttoned up heel and a Phoebe Philo suit. But that’s a whole other bitch that needs taming.
For now, its still summer.
Stay sexy,
L.